


Tu Me Manques

by Browneyesparker



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6319660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Browneyesparker/pseuds/Browneyesparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks he loses Joan and begins a descent into madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Spoiler Alert*: She’s not dead.

**.**

**_I still see your reflection inside my eyes_ **

**Gone [gawn, gon]:**

  1. **(verb) Past participle of go, 2. (adjective) departed; left, 3. lost or hopeless, 4. ruined, 5. that has passed away; dead**



_Joan. . . gone. . ._

They were the only two words he could string together in the long paragraphs and sentences Captain Gregson was putting together and trying to force him to understand.

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

She’d been there that morning, making coffee and waffles in bare feet and an Iron Man t-shirt and plaid boxers that had probably belonged to him but had gotten mixed up in their laundry a long time ago.

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

She’d been humming a Taylor Swift song. One of her really annoying overplayed ones. Shake It Off over and over again. He had snapped at her to _please_ be quiet because he was trying to concentrate on a rather difficult case.

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

She’d laughed and stopped humming and asked if he wanted to talk about it. Maybe some fresh perspective would help him. He hadn’t wanted her help though and he’d told her as much. She’d sat across from him with her breakfast and started to hum again as she ate.

Shake It Off. . . Shake It Off. . . Shake It Off. . .

He’d gotten up and left her to her breakfast.

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

She’d said goodbye and mentioned vaguely she had plans. She had promised to be back in time for dinner. She’d bring home takeout. . . Italian, maybe.

He’d caught a lead in the case, so he hadn’t had the foresight to ask where she was going.

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

He wished he had asked her where she was going.

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

“Maybe she’s just detained. . .” Sherlock suggested hopefully, his voice sounding far away.

“No. Sherlock have you not listened to a thing I’ve been saying?” Gregson answered. “Joan is _not_ coming back! We got a call from her cell phone and nobody answered. We found the location of her call and went to see if she was okay. We found her phone and a lot of blood but she wasn’t there.”

“She’ll come back!” Sherlock insisted. “We’re supposed to have dinner. Italian. Have you called the hospitals, Captain? Maybe she was seriously injured. She might have called 911.”

“Sherlock. There weren’t any calls to 911 in her recently dialed numbers,” Gregson told him gently. “We’re going to do our best to find her body but you have to accept that she’s not going to come home. Joan’s gone.”

There were those two _god-awful_ words.

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

“NO!” Sherlock bellowed, feeling the world around him like he was fighting an ocean wave but no matter what he did, and it was going to consume him.

_Joan. . ._

_Gone. . ._

“Do you have any idea where she was going? Who she was meeting?” Gregson asked calmly. “It might help us if you did.”

“NO!”

_Gone. . . gone. . . gone. . . gone. . ._

Gregson put his pen and notebook away. He came over to him and grabbed him, pulling him into a hug.

Sherlock struggled against him. “No. No. No.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Gregson soothed, in that moment he was the father Sherlock had never had.

“No.”

“One day. . . it’ll be okay.”

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

How could he make the Captain understand it wouldn’t ever be okay? A part of him was missing. It would never be okay. Not today. Not one day.

Not ever.

_Joan. . ._

_Joan. . ._

_Joan. . ._

A low, guttural sound came from somewhere deep inside of him and he tried to get control of his emotions. But it was like getting sick, once it started coming out, it couldn’t be stopped.

_“Joan. . .”_

Sherlock didn’t realize he had said her name aloud.

“Sherlock. Sherlock it’s going to be okay,” Gregson repeated. “Joan wouldn’t want you to be like this. You’ve got to be strong for her sake right now.”

Sherlock straightened up. “Of course. You’re right.”

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

His stomach twisted painfully at the remember and he drew in a deep breath to steady himself.

Gregson eyed him, a mixture of suspicion and concern was evident on his face. “Sherlock. What are you going to do?”

_Gone. . ._

“Has somebody been to see her parents?” Sherlock asked, moving around the brownstone.

“Marcus is with them right now,” Gregson answered.

“I should go and be with them. They’re family.”

“I’ll take you.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, I really think you should let me take you!”

“Why? Are you going to make sure I go directly there without taking a detour to buy drugs?” Sherlock asked. “Be not alarmed Captain. I will not give into the siren’s call.”

“Maybe not today. But what about tomorrow?”

_Joan. . . gone. . . gone,  gone, gone. . ._

Sherlock swallowed hard again. Darkness was already wrapping herself around him, tight and suffocating. Without Joan in his orbit, he knew it would be easier to slip into old habits. He’d done it once already when she had been there.

He couldn’t stand there and tell the Captain that he wouldn’t do it. There was too much noise in his head and the demons were knocking on his door.

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

“I’m fine.”

“Sherlock, you are clearly _not_ fine! Let me help you.”

_Gone. . ._

Sherlock tried to pretend to be indifferent even though a few seconds ago he had been acting like his life had been ending. He knew if he didn’t then Gregson would never leave him alone and all he wanted to do was be alone.

After he checked in on Joan’s family.

“I’m leaving now. I would appreciate it if you didn’t follow me and you weren’t here when I return.”

“Sherlock. . .”

“I trust you remember where the spare key is. Please lock up before you go.”

_Gone. . ._

Sherlock would give into madness later.

**TBC. . .**

**.**


	2. Chapter 2

 

**.**

**No [noh]: adverb, (a negative used to express dissent, denial, or refusal as in response to a question.)**

**_Oh no here comes that sun again, it means another day without you my friend_ **

“I came to offer my condolences.”

_No_

“Condolences?” Sherlock repeated, looking at his father like he was speaking a language that he didn’t know.

“For Joan Watson,” Morland Holmes answered. “Naturally.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Oh.”

“I was wondering if you had any idea what she was into when she died?”

_No_

“I do not.”

_No._

“I see.”

Sherlock looked at him slowly. “Why?”

Morland pressed his lips into a thin line and didn’t say anything.

_No_

Sherlock had started to hate the silence.

Every day it was growing and choking him and taunting him. But he still didn’t want his father’s company. His father’s taunting, larger than life presence.

Condescending. Unsympathetic.

His condolences were for show only. He could tell from his father’s bold-colored tie that he wasn’t even thinking about going to the funeral services planned for that afternoon.

_No_

Sherlock swallowed past the painful, permanent lump in his throat. “If you have thing else to say, I wish you would leave. I don’t want to see you right now. I’ve got to get ready for her funeral.”

_No_

“Very well.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again. “Goodbye father.”

Morland started to shuffle out of the living room and then stopped short. He didn’t turn around. “You might want to clean this place up. It’s a wreck.”

Sherlock didn’t need his father to tell him what it looked like. He’d been the one to wreak havoc and destruction on the brownstone. It had happened after he’d visited with Joan’s parents.

He had smashed everything he could get his hands on into smithereens. Obliterating him and her from the house.

_No_

“I’ll send my people to clean it in the morning.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Really, I insist. There’s no need to live like a wild animal,” Morland told him.

_No_

Clicking heels.

“Sherlock are you ready to go?” Fiona asked. “The funeral is in an hour and Joan’s parents wanted you to be there to sit with the family. Remember?”

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. “I’ll be ready in a moment. I just need to make sure my father leaves.”

“You better go,” Fiona told Morland pointedly. “We have somewhere very important to be.”

“Who are you?” Morland asked.

 _“Go!”_ Fiona repeated sharply. “Sherlock doesn’t want you here right now!”

“I’ll be back later Sherlock,” Morland said, disappearing from view.

_No_

“You’re not ready yet,” Fiona said.

“I’ll be ready in just a minute,” Sherlock answered, sitting up and making his way up the stairs.

“Hurry up!” Fiona called.

_No_

Sherlock moved around his room numbly. He chose between the only two ties he had and dug around his sock drawer for something a little more conservative than bees or the One Direction ones that Joan had bought for him as a joke.

He settled on black and gray stripes.

_No_

He pulled them on, put his shoes on, and tied his tie. Everything was methodic and meticulous.

_No_

_Joan. . . gone_

He closed his eyes at the minute reminder. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Like it had felt when he had lost Jamie. . . she’d been his friend, his partner. . . his flat mate.

He hadn’t been in love with her.

But the feeling grew every day.

Something was missing from him.

Like a limb or maybe his heart.

Sometimes he thought he still heard her moving around in the kitchen and singing pop songs while she made dinner just because she knew it would annoy him.

Sherlock knew there were such things as ghosts but he was starting to wonder if there could be such a thing as phantoms.

_No_

“Sherlock?”

Fiona was standing in the doorway, looking at him.

“I’m ready,” Sherlock answered, pulling on his black dress coat.

_No_

He didn’t want to go.

He knew he would come back to the brownstone changed. He would be a man who had buried the person who had changed his life for the better even though he hadn’t looked at it like that the first time they had met or in the days afterwards.

_No_

_No_

_No_

The words were a steady tattoo against his brain. He didn’t know how he was going to face the ashes to ashes and dust to dust stuff without losing it. Without standing up and screaming and cursing God.

What kind of God would put somebody like Joan Watson on earth just to take them away? When had he become the kind of man who questioned God’s existence? He had never believed before.

But now.

He needed somebody to blame and who else was there to blame except God, Himself? He didn’t know what Joan had been involved in when she had been murdered.

And Gregson and Marcus were ruling it as a murder even though the case had been ripped away from them because they were too close to the case to be objectionable.

Sherlock was too tired to fight for them to keep the case even though he knew he’d be the best person to solve it and bring justice to the Watson family.

_No!_

“Sherlock, where here,” Fiona told him.

Sherlock hadn’t even realized they had hailed a taxi and made their way to the church where the funeral services would be held.

The Watsons were waiting for him at the front of the church. All of them. Except for Joan.

What was he going to do?

_No_

“Come! Sherlock _come_!” Mary Watson beckoned.

“I’ll see you later Sherlock,” Fiona told him, disappearing into the church.

Sherlock went over to them. To her family. To _his_ family and shoved his hands in his pockets, shifting from side-to-side and thinking of something to say.

But he was at a loss for words.

“Are you ready?” Mary asked, strong for everybody.

_No_

_Never._

_I will never be ready._

_What are we_ ready _for anyways? This only makes it real. And it can’t be real. I don’t want it to be real. I demand that it all goes away!_

“Yes,” Sherlock lied instead.

“Come,” Mary repeated, stretching out her hand towards him.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment and then took it. With her free hand, Mary linked arms with her husband, Henry and together they walked into the church together with Oran and his wife following close behind them, joined together at the hip.

The service passed in a blur. Gregson gave a speech on behalf of the precinct. Sherlock had been asked to say something but he couldn’t form sentences to express the kind of regard he had held Joan in. He couldn’t stand in the pulpit and speak words of _sentiment_. Not about her.

He wasn’t any good at it. 

“She’ll be missed,” Gregson said, starting to wrap up his speech. 

_No_

“By all of us.” 

 _No_  

His turn was coming.

The speech he hadn’t written was folded up in his pocket. 

_NO_

He stood up and walked out of the sanctuary, disjointed and as fast as his legs would carry him. Nobody followed him out to see if he was okay, he didn’t expect anybody to. 

The only person who had been so completely attune with him had been Joan.

And she would never be there to catch his mood swings again. Or to bring him back into the funeral or down to earth or any of the million things she did for him on a daily basis.

He wondered how long it would be until the madness edging around his brain and soul and life.

Without her it was inevitable.

 

**TBC. . .**

 

**.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that happened. I hope you’ll tell me what you thought of this chapter if you have any thoughts. I know it’s a little depressing or maybe very depressing but I have a happy ending in mind. The song I used for this story is “Walk Away” by Ben Harper.


	3. Chapter 3

**.**

**_In many years they may forget this love of ours or that we met. They may not know how much you meant to me_ **

**Breathe [bree _th_ ], verb (used without object): 1. To take air, oxygen ect. . . into the lungs and expel it; inhale and exhale; respire. 2. (in speech) to control the outgoing breath in in producing voice and speech sounds. 3. To pause as for breath, take a break. 4. To move gently or blow lightly. 5. To live: exist; _Hardly a man breathes who has not known great sorrow._**

“I cannot do this anymore.”

_Breathe_

Sherlock waited a beat.

“Do what?”

_Breathe_

Fiona sighed. “I think you know what I mean, Sherlock.”

_Breathe_

_No_

“Fine.”

“I know it hasn’t been too long since she was murdered but you’re acting like it’s the end of the world. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were in love with her.”

_Breathe_

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock answered.

“ _Me?_ Excuse me Sherlock, but _you_ are the one who’s a dead man walking!” Fiona said. “I don’t think I’m the ‘absurd’ one here! You’re acting out of character and I don’t like it.”

_Breathe_

“You can just go. Nobody asked you to stay.”

“Actually, Captain Gregson asked me to make sure you were okay,” Fiona answered.

“I’m okay. If you want to go, you have your freedom,” Sherlock told her.

_Breathe_

“Maybe you should get some help. Talk to somebody,” Fiona suggested.

_Breathe_

Sherlock didn’t want to talk to anybody. Especially the somebody Fiona was suggesting. It hurt too good to say it aloud, to let people in on how he was feeling or trying to find a solution to make him feel ‘better’.

“You love her,” Fiona said. “You’re never going to let her go. You’re going to live with her ghost forever and ever. Nobody will ever be good enough to replace her and I am not going to try.”

_Breathe_

Sherlock knew he should fight for her, ask her to stay, tell her not to walk out the door and out of his life. But he couldn’t muster the energy, he couldn’t open his mouth and say what Fiona so desperately wanted him to say.

Sherlock sighed. He couldn’t ask her to stay either because he knew it wouldn’t be fair to her. There wasn’t enough of him to go around and he had disappeared the day Gregson had told him that Joan had been killed.

“It isn’t you. It’s me."

“I know.” Fiona gave him one more kiss. “I wish you all the best things in life Sherlock. I know you wish the same things for me.”

“I do.”

_Breathe_

And then she was gone.

For the first time in a while, he was all alone. He closed his eyes and took in the silence, sitting down on the couch.

_Breathe_

There was a knock on the door. Sherlock got up slowly to go see who it was.

_Maybe Fiona forgot something. . ._

But it wasn’t Fiona, it was Mary and Henry Watson standing on his porch, their arms full.

“We brought food,” Henry said.

“In case you aren’t eating enough,” Mary added. “You aren’t eating enough. You’re too skinny.”

Sherlock stepped aside and let them inside even though he didn’t want to. But they were the closest thing he had to Joan.

_Breathe_

“We talked to Captain Gregson,” Mary told him. “Still no leads in the case.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I know. He talked to me too.”

“Maybe if they were working on it. . .” Mary trailed off. “But they’re too close to it. They can’t.”

“They’ll find out who did it eventually,” Henry promised.

_Don’t make promises  you can’t keep. . ._

_Breathe_

“They might not,” Mary said. “Not everybody is as smart as our Joanie and Sherlock. What are they going to do without them?”

“They know what they’re doing,” Sherlock answered but it was mumbled and he was pretty sure Mary didn’t hear him.

“Sherlock, dear, where’s Fiona?” Mary asked suddenly. “Should we wait for her to have dinner?”

“She’s gone.”

_Breathe. . ._

“Gone?” Mary repeated, blanching slightly.

_Joan. . . gone. . . breathe. . ._

“We’re not together anymore.”

“Oh. . . oh, I am so sorry!” Mary soothed, dropping the spatula she was using and going over to him, hugging him.

_Breathe_

_Breathe_

_Breathe. . ._

Sherlock expelled a deep breath he didn’t know he had been holding. The usually nosey Mary did not ask for anymore explanation to why Fiona would have left him. He was grateful. There was no way he could explain the reasons she had given.

Not to Mary.

There would be too much sympathy.

He couldn’t bear their sympathy.

And anyways, he didn’t love her.

Not in the way Fiona was insinuating.

They had been companions. Partners. . . friends even. Not _that_. . . they didn’t feel that way about each other. Not ever.

_Breathe_

“Do you want us to leave you anything to eat later when you’re hungry?” Mary asked.

Sherlock looked up. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed between their getting there and his muddled thoughts.

“I’m sorry I’m not much company,” he told her.

“It’s okay,” Mary answered. “None of us really are. So, do you want food or not? You need to eat. You’re too skinny.”

Sherlock shrugged, he knew if she left him food then she’d feel better knowing that he was taken care of. But at the same time, it would only go to waste if she _did_ leave him food.

_Breathe!_

_Breathe!_

_BREATHE! FOR GOD’S SAKES!_

“Maybe I can eat later,” Sherlock lied.

Mary beamed but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good!”

There was another round of hugs from the Watsons and then Mary and Henry were gone too.

Sherlock watched them until there car was so far away he couldn’t see it anymore. He turned away from the window and started his nightly turn around the house, hoping he would catch her somewhere in the shadows.

But she wasn’t there.

Finally he stopped right in front of her closed door. He hadn’t been in there since before. . .

_Breathe_

He turned the knob and pushed the door open and took a step inside. He was so overwhelmed by her it almost knocked him over. She was everywhere, he couldn’t breathe.

He choked.

He clutched his chest.

He was having a heart attack.

No.

It wasn’t a heart attack.

Just too many emotions at once.

_Breathe_

He stumbled and fell face first on top of her sloppily made bed. His eyes were burning.

 _Breathe_  

He gathered her covers around him and tried to breathe in deeply, tried to catch her smell and her Bath & Body scent.

_Breathe_

When he exhaled, all that came out was a solitary sob.

And then another one.

_Joan. . . . gone.  . . breathe. . . breathe. . . gone. . . gone. . . gone. . . NO!_

His face was wet with tears he hadn’t shed and suddenly was all at once.

_Come back.  . ._

_Please. . ._

“Please!” He said aloud, like a prayer or a plea or something to God or Joan, he didn’t know.

He cried and pleaded so much it wore him out. He cried until he didn’t think he could cry anymore and then he did it some more.

And all he wanted to do was numb the pain. Get a needle and a spoon and maybe forget they had ever met, that there had been a Sherlock and a Joan in the same sentence.

Instead, he slept and didn’t forget.

**TBC. . .**

 

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:  
> The original chapter was titled “She’s so pretty, she’s so damn right, but I’m so tired of thinking about her again tonight” because “Worn Me Down” by Rachel Yamagata has been my Sherlock/X song since Kitty. I think it would fit any women trying to fill Joan’s shoes. Even Fiona (who I am less and less impressed with with every episode that comes on). 
> 
> The song that made the cut is called “I Cried For You” by Katie Melua. It fits this story, it fits this chapter. I cried so much writing this chapter. . . sorry if you cried reading it.
> 
> Until Next Time!
> 
> Love,  
> Holly, 3/31/2016


	4. Chapter 4

**.**

**Thirsty [thur-stee] (adjective): 1. Feeling or having thirst; craving liquid ,** **needing moisture, as land; parched; dry or arid: 2. _the thirsty soil._ 3\. eagerly desirous; eager:**

**_It’s been so long between the words we spoke, will you be there up on the shore? I hope. You wonder why it is that I came home, I figured out where I belong. . ._ **

_thirsty_

“Hang on Sherlock. We’re going to get you some help! Just hang on!”

_thirsty_

Nothing was focused. He couldn’t remember anything. Except he had sold his soul to the Devil just so he could see Joan again.

_thirsty_

“. . . so much vomit. . . severely dehydrated. . . probably hasn’t eaten in days. . .”

Sherlock wondered vaguely why Bell sounded so frantic. He was fine, really he was even though his world was spinning and his tongue was drier than the desert and he was pretty sure he had seen the Devil for real. But it might have been a figment of his imagination.

Or maybe Jamie.

It didn’t have a shape or a face. It only felt evil.

_thirsty_

“. . . Joan would kill us if she were here. . .”

 _“J-J-Joan?”_ Sherlock stuttered, his lips cracking from the sudden force of using them for the first time in a while, he could taste blood on his tongue, metallic and harsh. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. It was dry. Everything was so dry.

Bell looked at him, his face ashen. “. . . awake. . . asking for Joan. . . you don’t think he remembers?”

There was a clanging sound and the whine of sirens. Voices Sherlock didn’t recognize giving instructions in medical speech.

_thirsty_

Maybe he was in Hell.

But Bell was still there. Had the End Times come? No. The End Times was something that the Bible mentioned and Sherlock didn’t believe in the Bible except for it being a good story.

But he had started to think God existed because he had needed somebody to blame for taking Joan away.

_thirsty_

“Holmes. . . Sherlock. . .” Bell hung up and put his hand on top of his.

Sherlock flinched, it was too warm compared to his icy cold one, and it almost burned him. “J-J-Joan?” He repeated.

“She’s still dead.”

_Joan. . . gone. . . no. . . breathe. . . thirsty. . ._

“D-d-dead?” Sherlock repeated.

“You’re on your way to the hospital.”

“You need to make sure he’s calm, Detective!” A female voice snapped at Bell.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Bell apologized quickly. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“N-n-noooo!” Sherlock protested.

_thirsty_

_Joan. . . gone. . ._

But Sherlock couldn’t find the words to remind Bell that Joan was gone, that he would never be okay again.

“When was the last time your friend had anything to eat or drink?” The angry paramedic was speaking again.

“I-I don’t know!” Bell answered. “I just got a call from his cell phone and when he didn’t answer, I came to check on him! Okay? I’m sorry! He’s been kind of absent from my life”

“And you didn’t see anything around him? No drug paraphernalia? What kind of detective are you? You know he has a history of drugs!”

_thirsty_

“He usually does heroine. Maybe he did it again, I found him collapsed in the hallway next to his partner’s bedroom, maybe he did it in there. I should have thought to check!” Marcus said.

 _“Th-thirsty. . .”_ Sherlock said aloud.

“Great. Just great. If we don’t know what he did, we won’t know how to treat him properly. He could die and it’ll be on you, you know.”

“D-d-didn’t do heroine,” Sherlock tried, but his words were heavy and got stuck in his throat. He wasn’t even sure he had said them aloud.

“Did you say something Sherlock?” Bell asked.

“H-h-heroine,” Sherlock repeated. “I-I-I didn’t. . . didn’t d-do it.”

Bell looked at him hopefully. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded. Too tired to answer him. He felt a needle plunge into his vein, more medical language and saline flowed through his body. He drifted off on a wave of black.

**.**

He woke up to voices.

Real ones.

He pried his eyes open and tried to blink away the blurriness but he could only make out shapes. Two shapes he recognized.

Kitty.

And. . .

_Joan_

He closed his eyes, wondering what sort of controlled drugs they had been feeding him to conjure up the two women he had never imagined he would ever see again.

Joan looked his way.

His heart stopped beating.

She came over to him. Sat down on the edge of his hospital bed and reached out to touch him. Fingers met cheek. It felt real. He closed his eyes.

“Joan.”

“Shhhh. Shhhh. . . we’ll talk later. Rest now.”

“Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised.

And then he slept.

**.**

_Thirsty_

He woke up with Joan still there, lying beside him. He thought he had dreamed it. Her being back in his life. Kitty and Marcus were sitting in chairs beside his hospital bed, talking in hushed voices. Everything felt unreal, like he had been dreaming it up until this point.

Like maybe it had never happened even though the IV needle and quiet whirring of medical equipment attested to everything that had happened the past few months.

“Oh, Sherlock! You’re awake!” Marcus said. “Kitty and I will go and get the doctor.”

“You both don’t need to go,” Joan told them as she sat up and swung her legs around the bed.

“It’ll give you an opportunity to talk a little bit,” Kitty answered. “Come on Marcus. Let’s leave the two of them alone now.”

They shuffled out the door without looking back.

“Wow Sherlock. You look like hell,” Joan said as she shoveled ice chips into a plastic cup, she sat down again and raised the bed before starting to spoon feed him.

“Where have you been?” Sherlock asked around a mouthful of ice. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I know. I know,” Joan answered. “I’ll try and explain everything when you’re up to it.”

Sherlock knew she was right but he wanted to know what had happened. Why she had left, where she had gone. He was going to poke and prod it out of her but the doctor came in with Marcus and Kitty on his heels.

The doctor shooed everyone out who wasn’t a patient and it had to be left until later.

**TBC. . .**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one more part to go or maybe two. I promise everything will be revealed in the next chapter. Hold tight. It’ll be written and posted soon. The song from this chapter is Long & Lost by Florence + the Machine.
> 
> Reviews = love. Please tell me what you thought if you have the inclination. 
> 
> Lastly, I in no way wish Fiona harm. I am on the Asperger’s Spectrum with something called Non-verbal Learning Disability. I am not 100 percent sure I love her portrayal on screen as somebody who lives with a learning disability like her. And I most certainly think she takes away from the dynamic and chemistry of the two leads but I wish her a happy disappearance from the show. No matter what happens, Joan & Sherlock are true soulmates. He wanted to change for her before Fiona was even a thought. I will cling to that forever.


	5. Chapter 5

**.**

**_I’ve been with you enough to know just why I need you, baby I’m right beside you. All I need is a little more you._ **

**Home [hohm]: noun, a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household. 2. the place in which one's domestic affections are centered, an institution for the homeless, sick, etc.: 4. the dwelling place or retreat of an animal. 5. the place or region where something is native or most common. 6. any place of residence or refuge: _._ 7\. a person's native place or own country.**

“So, where were you?” Sherlock asked, it had been over a week and the doctors had finally cleared him to go home. “Why did you pretend you had been murdered? Don’t you know what it did to me!?”

“I know,” Joan said quietly as she busied herself making him more comfortable. It had been over a week but the doctors had finally cleared Sherlock to go home to the Brownstone.

“You are not cruel-hearted, Joan. So, I know that this wasn’t some epic prank you played on me to see how far over the edge I would fall.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Joan answered.

“Where did you go?” Sherlock pressed. “They said you were dead, I saw pictures of the crime scene. There was so much blood. . . and you were gone. They looked forever, they never found you. There were no answers. . . . just a cold case.”

“I faked my own death. They were all in on it, Captain Gregson and Marcus. Kitty. . .”

Sherlock smiled wryly. “The last time a woman in my life faked her own death, she turned out to be a mastermind serial killer.”

Joan smiled in return. “I am not a master mind serial killer. I just. . . I got into a bit of trouble and I didn’t want to bring you down with me.”

“Wh-what kind of trouble did you get into?”

Joan fidgeted with his blankets. “Your father. I got involved with your father and it was bigger than I could have ever imagined. It got so big. It almost killed me for real. I decided I would beat them to the punch.”

“Father never said. . .” Sherlock trailed off because his father would have had no qualms killing Joan, in taking away something or somebody he had loved. He’d done it before, there was nothing stopping him from doing it again. “My father wasn’t the one who tried to kill you?”

“I didn’t know,” Joan answered, shaking her head. “That’s why I faked my death and disappeared. I went to London and hid out with Kitty while Gregson and Marcus tried to find out who wanted me dead.”

“Why did you come back?” Sherlock asked.

“Marcus called Kitty. He told her you weren’t doing too well. That you were taking my death really hard. He didn’t know if it was drugs or something else. I had to come back because if you had relapsed again then it would be _my_ entire fault and I couldn’t have. . .”

Sherlock shook his head and grabbed her hands. “No! Don’t blame yourself for a second. It would have been _my_ if I _had_ relapsed. It was my fault. I let your absence from my life dictate my actions. I lost control, I should have been stronger and I wasn’t when it counted the most.”

“But it wasn’t drugs,” Joan answered. “You _were_ strong when it came to that. Right?”

“You have no idea how much I wanted to do drugs again,” Sherlock said, interlacing their fingers because he was still holding her hand.

“It was a step in the right direction,” Joan told him, bringing his hand to her mouth and kissing it. “But you still didn’t take good care of yourself like you should have and that needs to be taken into consideration.”

“I missed you,” Sherlock whispered, reaching out to touch her face with his free hand.

Joan closed her eyes. “If we’re being honest, I missed you too.”

“Every second of every day. . .” Sherlock moved his fingers from her cheek to her lips, like he was memorizing her for a rainy day. “I was lost without my Boswell. My God, Joan, you’re face is like coming home.”

Joan offered him a watery smile. “I was pretty lost without you too.”

“You did not self-destruct though.”

“I had faith I was coming home. . . to you,” Joan answered.

“Did your parents know about your plans?”

Joan looked guilty. “I couldn’t put my mother through that.”

“Well, she played her part _brilliantly_. She was very convincing as the grieving mother. I didn’t notice any flaws in her performance. But maybe that was because I was too strung out on my own grief to notice it was all a charade.”

“Your game was slipping,” Joan teased.

“I’ve told you, I’m better _with_ you Joan. When will you believe me?” Sherlock replied.

“Sherlock, I noticed Fiona didn’t come by the hospital the whole we were there. Did something happen with you two?”

“We broke up. Or better yet, _she_ ended things with me. It was a while after we thought you had been murdered. She stayed with me longer than I expected but after a while, she couldn’t reach me anymore. It was only right to allow her to cut ties with me. She deserved better.”

“I’m sorry Sherlock. I didn’t consider that would happen when I disappeared—”

“My dear, do not blame yourself. It was only a matter of time before the two of us would have crashed and burned. If it hadn’t been your death, it would have probably been my work.  Or my inability to communicate when she’s entirely more open than I am. You are not at fault.” 

“Well, maybe now that I’m back you two can work something out. I know you guys really liked each other.”

  
“I really don’t think we’ll get back together. You see, it wasn’t just your death that drove us apart. In the end, Fiona was convinced my grief over your supposed untimely demise was because I am in love with you.”

“Am?”

 _“Was,”_ Sherlock corrected himself. “It is utterly ridiculous. Not that the idea of anyone being in love with you is ridiculous. But the idea of you and me being anything more than what we are is. . .”

“Totally ridiculous,” Joan finished for him with a hint of a smirk. “I know.”

“I do—” Sherlock paused. “I know I haven’t said it aloud, not in so many words. But I do love you. That is a great compliment to you because I have only loved two other women in my life. My mother and Irene. Well, I suppose I _sort_ of had familial feelings for Kitty in the end. But. . . well, I am not making any sense. Am I?”

“No,” Joan answered. “But that’s okay. I think I should tell you that I love you too, Sherlock.”

“Good. Now that we’ve got _that_ out of the way—”

“Love isn’t something to get out of the way!” Joan interjected.

“Now that we’ve said I love you to each other, do you care to explain _why_ Kitty and Marcus are still in touch after all this time? I mean, does that make any sense to you?”

Joan laughed. “They like each other. They’re friends. It doesn’t have to make any sense.”

“Yes, but she’s kind of on the run and Marcus Bell is a by the book cop,” Sherlock reminded her.

“You might be rubbing off on him just a little bit,” Joan answered, brushing his hair away from his eyes. “I think it’s time to get a haircut, Sherlock. This hobo look doesn’t do anything for you.”

“You’re changing the subject,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Yes I am. Kitty and Marcus are two _adults_. I don’t think either of them will do anything stupid,” Joan assured them. “Well, maybe they will. . . but we’ll just have to trust them. Marcus will respect Kitty and. . . I don’t even know why we’re still having this conversation. It isn’t any of our business!”

“Fine!” Sherlock said. “We won’t talk about it anymore! Are you going to stay with me tonight?”

Joan smiled and crawled into bed beside him. “I’m not going anywhere Sherlock. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

**The End**

**.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:  
> But not really! I have a one-shot planned that ties into this series. Thank you for coming on this ride with me, I found out on Friday night that Joan is not the Blind Item on Tvline but I still feel like something like this could happen, we’ll find out in a little over a month. I’m sure whatever happens, the feels will be insane.
> 
> And I’ll probably write another half-dozen fan fictions.
> 
> Please tell me what you thought, for old time’s sake! I’ll be back soon! 
> 
> Until Next Time!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was born from last night’s episode and a blind item on TVline (where there will be a death but since “b” is still in a contract, they probably aren’t dead). I kind of think it won’t be Joan and that Castle will most likely kill Beckett off but I want to explore the possibility that it could be Joan. It’ll be 4 or 5 parts. I hope you’ll tell me what you think.
> 
> The title “tu me manques” which roughly translates as you are missing from me. I think it’s a beautiful expression for how Sherlock has felt when Joan is gone and will feel on this journey I am going to take him through.
> 
> Until Next Time!


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